Best job I ever had

Fourteen years ago I witnessed one of the greatest tragedies our generation has ever seen. We watched a jet crash into one of the iconic symbols of American ingenuity and greatness, the World Trade Center. As we watched smoke bellow from the tower, we witnessed, on live television, a second jet slam into the other tower. Within hours they had both collapsed, crashing to the ground in a roar of flames, smoke, ash and steel, taking with it over 3000 lives. The single largest death toll for a terrorist attack had occurred, easily eclipsing the previous, the OKC bombing. Within months, Special Forces troops would be on the ground in Afghanistan, fighting alongside the Northern  Alliance. In 2003, we entered Iraq, beginning with a display of force so great it was referred to as "Shock and Awe." Watching these events, my resolve was solidified to one day join the military. On January 6, 2006 I did exactly that. Basic training between junior and senior year, AIT the following summer. After AIT, I entered OU on a scholarship, determined to go to my dream school. I quickly realized I was not mature enough for college and jumped at the opportunity to go to Iraq. After Iraq, I deployed to Kuwait and Afghanistan, all on back to back tours with no break in service. These were uneventful tours, but taught me many things. Returning home, I still had an itch that just hadn't been fulfilled. The opportunity arose when a good friend called. He said just a few words, but words that meant the world to me. "We're deploying to Afghanistan. You should come." I jumped at the chance, made some phone calls and got put on alert. In February of 2011, I was activated. Fast forward to July, 2011. July 29, August 2, August 4, August 16, September 9, November 1. These days were our darkest days. Six days, days that were routine for those in the United States, are days forever embedded in the memory of the 1/279 Infantry Battalion. Ewy, Vicari, Owen, Peterson, Seals, Isenhower, Horton, Potter, Gailey, and Butcher. Names that mean little to many, mean the world to us. Days in which all I wanted to do was curl up in a corner and cry, but couldn't, knowing that I, a mere cog in the machine that was command and control of a 2200 square mile province in a part of Afghanistan most couldn't spot on a map, let alone pronounce correctly, had a job to do. Peoples lives depended on me doing my job. I shed tears, put on my big girl panties and did my job. I cried myself to sleep on some of those days, others all I felt was numbness, an empty hollowness. To this day those names conjure memories that I'd rather forget. I hated every minute of it. But, to quote a line from the movie "Fury," it was "the best job I've ever had." I longed to be home with my wife and son, out of the god forsaken country of Afghanistan. Getting on the plane for the ride out felt like I'd just been released from prison after a 20 year sentence. Freedom, real bacon and beer. All I wanted in life was real and returned to me. Here I sit, three years removed from the hell that I shared with 700 others, and I realize I miss it. Not the death, no, the death still haunts me in my dreams and waking hours. The comraderie. The fellowship. The structure. The crappy food. The terrible mattresses. The moon dust. SSG Each yelling at me. Magby, Bouge, Sanders, Rothstein, SGM Smith, Majors P and U, Chaplain Jordan, the guy that always broke army regs to cook my eggs like I wanted them. I miss it. I want to go back. Oh, how I want to go back. Best job I ever had. 

Fathers Day 2.0

This post was originally supposed to go over the history of my father and my relationship, but after beginning that, I felt it to be too dry and instead will try something else. As most of you know, my biological father, Francis "Frank" Couch, succombed to his battle with cancer last Friday. This post is for him.

I have few regrets in life, but last Friday I added one more to my list: I never told my biological father that I loved him. I did, and I know the feelings were mutual, but I never uttered the phrase. I think that maybe we said it in man code, like at midnight when he said "I'd rather you not leave tonight" and "are you sure you're good to go?" I called him Dad, once, on Christmas, when I said "Merry Christmas, Dad." He didn't say anything back to that, not sure if he was emotionally overwhelmed or if he just wasn't sure how to reply. We had many a conversation, over the phone, and sometimes, when the opportunity arose, in person. We talked about the past, the present and the future. We spoke of his shenanigans as a child and adult, we spoke of his succeses and his failures, and we spoke of mine equally.  The day of the funeral, we went to eat after the funeral, and I was asking everyone their favorite memories of Frank, what they will most fondly recall when they think of him. The answers varied, from fishing to driving, to holidays. They all held one thing in common, however, and that was his never ending sense of humor. When I look back on the time I spent with Frank, I most fondly recall an evening at the Cancer Treatment Center, when he, my wife and I all had rather smelly flatulance. We were all farting and laughing, having a grand old time, and Frank was laughing so hard it hurt him, literally. That is the Frank I will always remember, loving life and loving to laugh no matter how hard life may be. I only hope to epitomize that. 

Frank and I spoke for quite a while on Christmas, and we spoke of the future, and our hopes for it. Unfortunately, I will never get to spend a Christmas with my biological father. I will never share a beer with him, smoke a cigar, celebrate my big promotion at work, or go fishing, which was one of his true joys in life. One thing that I do not regret in life at all is the 18 months I had to get to know my father. I will cherish those conversations and memories forever, and I am glad to have known him.

The Search

I’ve spent the past four years of my life under a spell.
It’s been a spell of the exoticism of war. That maybe what I’ve been looking
for to complete my life could be found in Afghanistan or Iraq. I’ve given up on
home, my family, the people I love in search of something that doesn’t exist,
something intangible. I’ve destroyed relationships, hurt my wife, and abandoned
my son. I realize that what I was looking for all along was in my own house.
I’ve never really had a family, those who truly love me unconditionally. I’m
adopted and have always taken second place to my adoptive parent’s children and
grandchildren. I accepted a long time ago that that came with the territory.
This is not to say that I don’t love my parents, love what they have done for
me, what they have provided. They have raised me to be what I am today, and for
that I will be eternally grateful. However, I have come to realize that family
is more important that any thing in life. My search is complete; I have found
what I’m looking for. It comes in a small package, a short little red-head that
poops his self. I have found it in a beautiful red-headed lady who was
responsible for that young child. Granted, I had a few minutes involvement in
his creation, but she was the one who carried him for nine months, nourished
his infant body, and endured eighteen hours of labor only to have the end
result be a caesarian. I abandoned them in their time of need. I left when my
son was only a few months old, thinking that my wife could handle it, as she has
the previous deployments. She did handle it, and she handled it very well. The
fact still remains that I abandoned them in their time of need. I realize that
the past four years of my life I have spent searching for that which did not
exist. It has taken me four years, but I realize where my heart is, where I
belong. I owe my wife a very sincere apology for this, and I hope that she can
forgive me. I hope that when I get home, I can become the father and husband I
should have been being for the past four years. This journey will begin very
soon, and I look forward to it. I love my wife and son, and I know I will love
being a husband and father. This time, however, I’m not going to take any
timeouts. Full time, all the time.

Letter to Myself

*Note to readers: I do not do edits, I write rough drafts and post them, with minor edits for spell check and grammatical errors. I find that when you edit a paper such as this, you take out the emotion and some of the punch of the article. There may be inaccuracies, but they are all mine, and I don't really care, because this is more therapy for me that it is reading for you. I just feel like sharing these. With that being said, enjoy.*

Letter to Myself

To Loran Hatfield, 18, King of the World

You may not know who I am, but I am Loran Hatfield, 23, Humbled by Life. I just wanted to drop this letter to you, letting you know what you're in for. I know you're 18 and think that you're tough shit and know everything. You have it all planned out, know exactly how life is going to pan out for you. I have some bad news for you, though: life is going to throw you some curve balls.

1- You're going to screw up. Soon. You're going to get to OU, think that since you have a full ride that college is going to be a cake walk. Beer and the frat house will seem a lot cooler than that 8 o'clock math class. They may very well be, but the math teacher takes attendance. Oh, and she counts it towards your grade. Going to screw the pooch on that one, let me tell ya. That screw up will lead up to the next curve ball life is going to throw at you.

2- You're 19, failing college that you can't afford to pay for and looking for a way out. The Oklahoma National Guard is about to deploy to Iraq. You have your out, make a few phone calls, next thing you know you're in Ada, OK with all your gear reporting to your new unit. They tell you to be back in a few weeks, so you head back up to Joplin, MO and make the smartest mistake you have ever made. You marry your high school sweetheart. In retrospect, it isn't really a mistake, just maybe not the smartest thing to have done. But let me tell you what, that will be the beginning of your crowning achievement. But I'll get to that later. I digress, however, so let’s get back to Iraq. There will be a picture of you posted on Facebook, a 19 year old kid, decked out in full battle rattle on a C-130. The look on your face will say it all: you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into. You find out Iraq isn't that bad, you like it, you volunteer to extend. You get stationed in Kuwait. It’s going to be the greatest nine month vacation of your life. You like that, so you decide to extend again. Afghanistan this time, first time you've seen snow in two years. You realize that being away from home and your newlywed wife for two years is a little ridiculous. You decide that enough is enough and you want to go home. You realize war isn't so bad, that people don't always die in war. You will be insulated from the harsh realities of the war and the world. Enjoy your time of innocence.

3- You'll get home from Afghanistan and be a newlywed couple that just happens to have celebrated your two year anniversary six months earlier. You're going to do newlywed type stuff, and before you know it, you're going to be buying pregnancy tests. They're positive. You are going to be a father at 22. You are an idiot and volunteer for another deployment when she's only three months pregnant. Big mistake there, but we'll get to that later. You're going to get a real job, a great one, at a place you've never heard of, but has great fringe benefits, mostly really cheap cheese, and you're going to get fat off of all the cheese. The months will fly by, and before you know it, you're going to be sitting in a hospital on December 3, 2010. There's a complication with natural birth, so they decide to do a caesarian section. You're going to take a picture of yourself before you go into the OR, and upon looking at the picture afterwards, you're going to realize that you were scared shitless. There's a pattern emerging here with that one. Soon, however, you hear that cry that will break your heart. You may shed a tear or two, I'll let you figure out the count on your own, but you are going to immediately realize that your life is forever changed. It will never again be the same. That little redhead will be the center of your universe for the rest of your life.

4- You're going to meet your biological father. It's going to be creepy. On December 4, 2010, at 2 in the morning, you're going to get a Facebook message from some guy named Frank Couch saying he needs to talk to you. He's going to tell you he's your father and then he's going to tell you he has cancer. You're going to meet him, realize that it's pretty obvious he's your father, and still make him buy a DNA test. You're going to realize that even though you thought you never wanted to know your biological father, you'll be glad when it happens. You may even consider naming your next son after him. I don't know how that one works out, so I'll write you another letter in a few years. Your biological father will spoil your family, buying you awesome gifts like home brew kits, sending your son and wife so much stuff that the Fed-Ex and UPS guys know your wife and don't even bother asking for ID. You're going to call him Dad on Christmas of 2011, immediately wondering what you did that for and wondering if you'll ever be able to do it again. Once again, I'll let you know. Life is good, and you're finally enjoying what you have.

5- Don't enjoy it too much. You're going to Afghanistan in a few months. You're going to tell yourself not to get attached. You're going to fail at not getting attached. You're going to shed more than a few tears when you hand him to your wife and step into the armory, knowing it could be six months to a year before you see him again. You'll fly out of the states in June, enjoying a few beers in Manas, a few weeks at Bagram, then you'll land at your final destination in Afghanistan. You're going to realize real quickly that your three previous deployments were a fluke. Your battalion will lose eight soldiers in two months. You're going to question your decision to come on this deployment, you'll question your motives for it, but in the end you'll realize that the decision has been made and you just need to suck it up.

6- Today is Sunday, February 19, 2012. You're less than a month from going home and wondering what home is really like. You did the math today and realize that you have been married for four years, four months. You've been home for one year, three months of that. You don't know your wife, you don't know your son and you don't know what home is. I've come to the same conclusion you will in five years. There is no reason to sweat it. It will be what it will be, and everything will work out fine. Your son will love you. Might take a bottle and diaper change or two, but he'll realize who you are. He already leaves chocolate kiss prints on your wife's phone. Hopefully he'll realize that you're the guy in the phone and kiss you. If not, you've got a phone. He'll come around. Your wife will tell you how much you've changed, and you'll know she's right. My only hope is when she says that, she means you've changed for the good. Time will tell. With that, I end this letter and hope that it prepares you for the future.

Reflections of Fatherhood

Two roads diverged in a wood, and sorry I could not travel both, I took the one less traveled by. And that has made all the difference.

One year ago today, I checked my wife into Freeman Medical Center in Joplin, MO. She was scheduled to be induced that evening, and I had no idea the ride that I was in for over the next day, month, and year. As family and friends surrounded us, the ugly head of crisis made itself known in that small room. It seems that every time my wife attempted to deliver, my son's heart rate would drop dramatically. After this occurred several times, the doc decided that a C-Section was the safest option. 30 minutes later, at 8:54 PM on December 3, 2010, David Matthew Hatfield caught his first glimpse of the world. I was scared shitless. I have a photo of myself right before we went into the OR and it looked like I was frightened. In recollection, I realize I was. The doctor asked me if I wanted to cut my son's umbilical cord, but I did not because I was worried I would hurt him. In retrospect, I realize that my fears were unfounded, because all babies are born with umbilical cords. The next few days seem like a whirlwind of family, friends, baths, diapers, and feedings. The first diaper I ever changed I had to ask the nurse for help. I was completely lost. I haven't changed many diapers since then, and for that, I feel uneasy. A year has passed, and in that year many things have happened. I've lost friends, I've lost opportunities to be with my son, and I have lost a certain level of innocence. But one thing that I have not lost is the love for my son. One day, he will realize that his father left for a war while he was still in diapers. He may not understand why at first, but I hope that one day he realizes that I did it for him. I volunteered for this deployment. I didn't have to go, but I knew that if I didn't take this one, I'd be on the next one, and maybe he would be older, maybe he would truly realize his father is gone. Saying goodbye to your child is one of the toughest things you can do, but one must do it with poise and love, for I know that I will be reunited with him soon enough. I know that soon, I will hold him on my chest as he sleeps again, knowing that all is right in the world. In the mean time, his birthday will be just another day in a country whose future lays in our hands. My son will be in my thoughts and my heart, as he always is, but more so than usual. My son is my world to me, and I long for the day when he is in my arms again. I love you, David Matthew Hatfield.

For the record, he is not named after the Dave Matthews Band. Random tangent, but I look at people like they're stupid when they ask that.

Gazing at the Heavens

One of the things I absolutely love about where I am in Afghanistan are the clear skies. On a moonless night, you can see more stars than you ever thought existed. The first time I noticed, my breath was taken away, and that novelty has not worn much in the past few months. The other day as I was gazing at the stars I noticed a shooting star. Then another. Then another, and another, until in a little over an hour I had seen ten shooting stars, in all directions. It made me think of a joke, which goes like this:
A man was speaking with God and God said ask me any question you want. After a minute of thinking, the man looked to God and said, "God, what is a million years to you?" God replied "My son, a million years is but a mere second." After a few moments of contemplation, the man looked to God again and said "What is a million dollars to you?" God replied "Son, a million dollars is but a mere cent to me." Silent for a few minutes, the man looked to God and said "God, can I have a penny?" God replied "Wait a second..."

This joke points out a few things: time and monetary items are immaterial in the grand scheme of life. Our lives are just like those of the shooting star. Some are bright, full of happiness and joy, while others are dull and barely noticeable. But if you blink, they're both gone. So how do I make the most out of my blink of an eye? I try to change what will come after me. I will teach my son my values, my morals. My childhood was not the easiest, but without it, I would not be where I am today. Those experiences have taught me to be wise beyond my years. Heaven forbid that my son ever have to experience what I have, but hopefully, I can teach him those values and morals in other ways. Just some food for thought, all...

9/11

Everyone always poses the great question: "Where were you on 9/11? What were you doing when you found out?" and so forth. Where I was on 9/11 is of no significance, I was in the 6th grade, in the Principal's Office at Haysville Junior High. No, I wasn't in trouble (yet) but yet I was still there, saw the image of the first tower being hit played repeatedly, and watched, in shock, awe, and strangely a slight sense of amusement as the second plane flew into the other tower. I do not recall why I was amused, only that in reflection I realize that I did not fully comprehend what was happening at the time. My next class was a computers class, and I recall that we did nothing but watch the T.V. Living near Wichita at the time, I recall the air as being tense, as many believed we may have been a target due to McConnell AFB and the numerous airplane manufacturers located in Wichita. The moment that I recall more than 9/11, however, was a few days later. The whole city, as well as the country, had swelled with patriotism. Signs said "God Bless America" flags flew, people seemed more alive, friendlier, as it may have been. Looking back, I am saddened that it took a national tragedy to invoke these feelings of pride in one's country, sad that it took this to get people to accept the word "God" on a billboard without the ACLU suing the every living shit out of the company, because that is what it was before, and that is what it is once again. But I digress. The moment I most recall from the weeks following 9/11 was the day I was returning to school from a doctor's appointment. My mother was driving, and we were listening to some country station in Wichita. As we were driving down the road, I saw numerous flags being flown, some at half staff, others at full staff, some with POW/MIA flags below, others with "Don't Tread on Me" flags below. "God Bless the USA" by Lee Greenwood started playing on the radio, his tones, that haunting voice, full of sadness and pride at once. I recall my chest swelling with pride, as I listened to the lyrics and saw the flags pass by, one by one. I recall that day when I have days of depression, days of sadness. It reminds me why I do what I do, why I am where I am. So, ask yourself, not where were you on 9/11, but what did you do as a result of it?

Letter to my Son, Part II

Dear David,
I realize that you are too young to read this and understand it, but I know that one day you will be old enough to read it, and hopefully, wise enough to understand it. Every day I wake up, I look at a picture of you, I have seven of them hanging in my room in a picture frame, haphazardly arranged. I have a picture of you when you were a month old, the birth announcements that we had made up for Christmas. There is a picture of me awkwardly holding you, me dressed up in my uniform, you in a one piece getup that looks mildly ridiculous, but not quite as ridiculous as the way I am holding you, in a type of offering. I see you on Skype, your chubby cheeks so reminiscent of mine, calling me "Dada" then beginning to suck on your toes. I miss these moments, due to my own fault, but I hope you do not hold this against me. I do this not for myself, but for love of country. For the faith that maybe, one day, Afghanistan can be something more than it is. I do it out of duty, duty to my fellow brothers-in-arms. But there is yet one love, one duty that I have neglected. You. For this, I apologize, for I know that when I get home, you will be but a little over a year old. You will never know that I was gone, except for what I tell you. You will never know the things I have done, the places I have been, the stories I have to tell. Except for those I tell you. What innocence I see in your eyes, and I long for that same innocence. I long to be as pure and innocent as you, but I cannot. I long to hold you and whisper my secrets into your ear, knowing you won't tell anyone, that they will be between you and I, but, alas, I cannot. One day, soon, I will hold you in my arms and profess my deepest love for you. I will see the undeniable love in your eyes, the sheer trust, the faithfulness you have in me to provide for you. But do not be mistaken. Do not trust me, do not have faith in me. The most important lesson I can teach you is this: trust in your fellow man, have faith in him, but do not put all of your faith and trust in any one man. Have faith and trust for mankind. The most important contract you will ever make will be one of a handshake, not one signed with a pen. Your word is all you have, keep it, and people will give you their all, break it, and they will take all. But, as in the last letter, remember, Faith, Hope and Love are still the greatest.

Love,
Your Dad
(from Afghanistan)

Father's Day

Tomorrow will be my first Father's Day as a father. It is both thrilling and bittersweet, as I will be leaving for Afghanistan very shortly and will not be able to see my son. I have missed many firsts and will miss quite a few more before I return home next year. His first time holding his bottle on his own, his first time crawling, his first time talking, his first time walking. These are memories that I will never be able to hold and cherish, but I hope that in ten or fifteen years when my son asks me why I left, he can understand the values that I hope to instill in him: love of God, family and country. This post, however, is not about me, it is about my father, and another gentleman I have recently come to know. My father is not my biological father, he adopted me at the age of seven. I cannot call him a gentle man, as I never saw him cry until he lost his leg in 2003. He has never been prone to show weakness, only in his times of vulnerability have I ever seen that. He was an angry man, prone to spankings and a backhand before he would consider sending me to the corner. He showed me what it meant to work, clocking in 40 plus hours during the week and helping out friends on their farms and roofs on the weekends. I joined the military in part because I wanted to be like him. He is now a frail man of 65, but he has never lost the twinkle in his eye, that sly look that he always carried about him. He still loves a good joke and is still too proud to ask for a hand. I hope that one day I can epitomize that which he is, a hard working, blue collar family man.

Now to the other part... My biological father found me via Facebook. In a story straight out of a Lifetime movie... When my son was born I posted some pics of him on FB. Someone sent him a link of the pics of my son and told him that these were pictures of his grandchild. He sent me a message, we met, had a DNA test, and the results confirmed that he was my biological father. It's odd for a 22 year old man to meet his father for the first time. I had written this man off a long time ago as a dead beat man who didn't care enough to even try to find me. Now, I realize that he didn't try to find me not because he didn't want to, but out of love. The realization that him trying to become a part of my life at the time would have been catastrophic. My adoptive parents love and support me to achieve all of my dreams, and for that, I am truly grateful. However, I also want to know what else is out there. This man was diagnosed with cancer and has had repeated operations on it. My fear is that I will never truly get to know this man, that the tragedies of life may take him away before I can pick his brain, to find out who my biological father is. As it is said in the Middle East, Inshallah, or God Willing, I will get to discover who this man is. If fate has it differently, however, I can answer that question that has been nagging me all of my life. I know who my fathers are.

Joplin

May 23, 2011 started out as a normal day in Ft. Polk, LA. Waking up at 6 am, I prepared to go to work. Chow, shower, shave, all everyday occurances for myself as I prepare for my second deployment to Afghanistan. Greeting fellow soldiers as I walk into work, my supervisor calls me over to his desk. "Have you talked to your family? Are they all ok?" I wonder why he would be asking such a question, and I told him that I had talked to my wife and family a few days prior, as cell phone reception is extremely spotty. He then told me that a tornado had hit Joplin. I told him I knew that a small tornado had hit St. Johns the night before, but there wasn't any major damage. About that time, I turn around and on Fox News is footage of a picture that will be forever seared into my mind, one of destruction and devestation. As what had happened sunk into my mind, a million thoughts raced into my mind. My wife, my son, my parents, her parents, her grandparents, friends, aquaintances, thousands of thoughts. My boss told me to take a few hours and get ahold of my family to ensure that they were safe. I checked my email, eight emails from my wife telling me everyone was safe, my mom and dad were ok, my son was safe. Then there was a BUT. Isn't there always a but? Grandma's house was gone. The destruction and devestation at 24th and Grand was so bad my Grandmother got lost trying to find what little remained of her house. The power and strength that she showed in her statements still awe me, even now: my house is gone, but I want to help others. The dedication, hardwork, and love that this woman gave to Joplin in her darkest hour is awe inspiring. Her selflessness and caring still fill me with pride. But this is not about her, not singularly, it is about Joplin as a collective. Neighbors pouring out of ruins minutes after the storm had passed, looking for friends, neighbors, strangers, pets. Trying to comprehend that which had just happened and already moving on. The stories of those who gave their lives so that others may live. The gentleman at Home Depot sheperding customers to safety, only to fall while giving others life. The manager at Pizza Hut, holding down the door to the freezer. A week after this tragedy occured, I was talking with a dear friend Debbie, and told her that there is only one other place that I have seen such courage occur: that is the battlefield. I have not seen the destruction first hand, only pictures on the internet. I cannot comprehend getting lost in two blocks because there are no street signs in Joplin. I cannot comprehend looking down from 32nd Street and seeing 20th. I cannot comprehend a third of Joplin being flattened. I cannot comprehend Joplin. I sat down outside and I cried for half an hour. Even with the knowledge that my family was safe, I cried. I cried for Joplin. I cried for those who lost their lives. I cried most of all, however, because I know Joplin will never be the same. The stories of courage and assistance are even greater than those of death, the story of the gentleman who drove a Dodge Ram from California and simply handed his keys to a lady who lost everything. The sheer number of volunteers that showed up to help. From Carthage, Neosho, Webb City, Oklahoma, Kansas, Arkansas, New York, and points north, south, east, west, from all over the United States. For a brief moment in time, the world was Joplin. Donations poured into Joplin, the POTUS made a brief stop to show that we are united as one. When tragedy strikes, the world stops. Some want to simply gawk, but most want to help. I wish I could have come home, to have helped, to have shown love to my town, my people, my home. Joplin has faded from the national light, the news trucks are gone, the volunteers slowly leaving town, the donations fading. But one thing remains: Joplin. It is still there. The people, the buildings, the town, the love. Joplin will be here in five years, in ten, in fifty. It will never be the same, but it will be. The love you get is equal to the love you give. Joplin still has not stopped giving.

I am Joplin.

Usama bin Laden died for Islam, why won't you?

The excitement of President Obama strolling up to the podium last night to announce to the nation and the world that Usama bin Laden has been killed by a US operation in Pakistan. There was an atmosphere of celebration, albeit muted, here at Camp Shelby, MS. Some of you know, some of you don't, that I am currently training up to deploy to Afghanistan. I just wanted to take a few minutes to express my thoughts on the situation. I need to throw this in here:

*The following views are my own, and in no way reflect the views of the US Army, DOD or any government entity.*

Now that thats out of the way, the killing of Usama bin Laden is a highly symbolic gesture. He has been in hiding for the past 10 years, and probably hasn't given any signifigant orders to the Taliban in 2-3 years. As someone put it on Facebook last night: Usama bin Laden: world hide and go seek champion 10 years running. He has been a symbolic face to the Taliban, and realisticly, he has been out of the spotlight for several years.

The reality of the situation is this: the Taliban will want vengence. This will not go unanswered. The new question is not will you die for Islam. The new question is: bin Laden died for Islam. Why won't you? The Taliban are going to unleash a hell on US troops in Afghanistan for this. Pissing off a bunch of extremists with access to guns and explosives is not a good idea. The death toll will rise dramatically, and will not stop until we leave the country. Do not read that and think that I believe we need to get out of the country, for I don't. We went into Afghanistan for a reason. Now, whether that is the main reason that we stay does not concern me. I have been there, seen the country first hand, and strongly believe that we are there for the right reasons. On this note, I shall end: do not be naive and think this is over.

Letter to my Son

David,

I know you are too young to read this, as you haven’t even left your mother’s womb, but I hope that one day you shall be able to. As we sit here in the birthing ward, growing impatient by the minute with your stubborn refusal to leave the warmth of your mother, we know that in due time you shall come, that not by our time line, but by yours. I know that soon enough I shall be able to hold you in my arms, kiss you, and just run around the hospital gushing in the joys of fatherhood. I know that you will be perfect in every way, beautiful, intelligent, and just generally perfect, like your father. I know that you were not planned, that we are not ready for you, but yet we have no choice. We have been blessed by God with you, and I plan to make the most of that blessing. I hope that I can teach you the important things in life, faith, hope, love, honor, commitment to family, country, and complete and total belief in your morals. I hope I can teach you to never be too proud to admit you are wrong, to not boast when you are right, and to be humble in all situations, no matter what your life may become. I hope that you can become a man unto yourself, that your beliefs and views reflect you, not myself, not your mother, but that you believe them with your whole heart and mind. That you can find the love of a woman, as I have found the love of your mother, that you two can complete each other, grow old and gray in the comfort of each others' arms. That you have a sense of humor, one that rivals mine, that you be able to laugh in all situations, for the greatest gift you can give someone is not a thing, but the feeling of joy. I know that soon, you will give me that greatest gift of all.

Love,

Dad

Beautiful Oblivion

As I sit in bed, watching my wife sleep, I take a look at my past, my present, and my future. How all of my decisions in life have led me to this point, at 4:26 on Thanksgiving morning, thinking of all the things I am thankful for. I write this with conflicting emotions, as I am glad to be home for the holiday season, as this will be the first Thanksgiving I have been able to spend with my family since 2006, but also, for the past three years, I have known what it has felt like to be in a crowded room with hundreds of people, fellow soldiers, but yet totally feel alone. My heart goes out to those soldiers currently in harm’s way, in Iraq, Afghanistan, and other locals such as Kuwait, Korea, Germany, and anywhere troops may be stationed and unable to make it home for the holidays. However, I digress from the original intent of this post. I see my wife sleeping, glowing in the majestic beauty of the last few days of her pregnancy, knowing that by next Saturday I will be a father, my life forever altered. I think of how our choices have led up to this point, the good ones as well as the bad. I can say with great pride that I regret very few choices that I have made in my life; this unplanned pregnancy is one I know I will never regret. I fear that we are not ready for this child, that we are not financially secure enough, mature enough, old enough, our house not baby proofed enough. But I know that in a week none of that will matter, because my world will forever change with the simple, primal sound of my son’s first cries. I know that my life will change from being self-centered, focused on my well being, to being focused entirely on that child. I realize now I am more in love with my wife than ever. Upon reflection, I realize I may have married Melony for all the wrong reasons, but that we stick together for the right one: love. I realize that most of the choices I have made in the past few years have been about me, about what I want, everyone else’s opinions be damned. I extended in Kuwait not for my wife and my own financial well being, I did it because I wanted to. All of the motives were entirely self-centered. I want to apologize to my wife, to ask her for her forgiveness, but I can’t. I see myself repeating the cycle, volunteering to go to Afghanistan again next year. I pray that she understands my choices, can forgive me for them. I love her with all my heart and try to do right by her as much as I am capable of. I am not sure what my intent of this post was, nor am I entirely sure that I achieved what I wanted. Life is forever changing and will be drastically altered for myself in a week. I know that I will be back on here then, gushing over my newborn son. Until then, I wish you all the best. Happy Thanksgiving.

My Greatest Fear

My greatest fear is not going home. It is going home and finding out that I like it more here than I do at home. I hope that this fear is never realized, for my wife as well as myself, for my sanity. The past two years has been one long lesson in which I have learned more about myself than I ever thought possible. The past few days I have spent in recollection of the choices that I have made that have brought me to this point. The question that has been at the forefront of my mind is why am I still here? I can't seem to find an answer that I can accept. I tried to say that it was for the money, the college, patriotism, to give my wife a life that she could not have otherwise. None of these answers can quell that nagging thought. I may never be able to give myself an answer that I find truly acceptable. I find myself thinking that I may have done this for all the wrong reasons. If all those reasons were wrong, then what are the right reasons? Are there any? My mind constantly nags me, telling me I have wasted the past two years of my life, but I know I have not. The past week has been the longest of my life, as I know the next two will be even longer. I am anxious to go home, but at the same time am reluctant, as I wonder how my friends, my family, will look at me. If I will ever be able to sit at the table on Thanksgiving and not feel like an outcast, a stranger in my own home. Will they ever be able to comprehend the things that I have been through, my experiences? My memories? The sound of the car bomb going off, seeing the mushroom cloud, wondering if that is all or if they are going to try to hit the camp again? The sound of the first mortar hitting the ground in the distance, wondering if the next one that hits is going to result in a an officer knocking on my wife's door, a flag being handed to her with an officer quietly whispering these words into her ear: "Mrs. Hatfield, this flag is presented on behalf of a grateful nation." I wonder if it would have been worth it, laying my life down in a foreign country that is most likely going to return to the ninth level of hell once we leave it. I wonder if it was worth the lives of those we have lost, SPC Walters, SPC Casey, and many others. Maybe in thirty or forty years I will be able to sit down with my grandchildren as they ask me about Iraq and Afghanistan. Hopefully I will be able to tell them how proud I was to be a part of the change, how I helped them improve their countries, how I did my part. I truly hope that is how this turns out, but I have my doubts. I hope that I can find an answer to my nagging question, but I fear I never will.

Finding Myself

Two years ago today I flew into Kywait. The past two years have been full of joy and heartache, lost friends, and learning. I originally joined the army as a way to find myself, to find what I am made of, to discover my true self. Four years later, I'm not sure if I am any closer to that goal than I was the day I signed my contract. I have discovered many things I am capapble of doing, from surviving 150 degree Baghdad summers to changing a transmission in a military truck. I have discovered that I can survive a week without a shower. I have learned that I can do anything I set my mind to.

But have I found myself? Have I found who I truly am? Have I found out what I want to do in my life? As most of you know, I will be heading home in a month. I am, for lack of better words, scared as to how I will cope with being home. After two years of being told what to do every day, of having every last minute of my day planned for me, how am I going to adjust to a life of disorganization, waking up whenever I want, doing whatever I want, getting in my truck and just driving? I do not have these freedoms where I am. I wonder if I will be able to accept them, to not have to drive down the road wondering if someone is going to try and kill me. Only time shall tell if I will be able to survive my demons. I do not have many of them, but I have enough of them...

Christmas

It is currently about 3:15 pm on December 23, 2009. I sit in Kabul, Afghanistan, pondering the past, present, and the future. Two years have come to pass since I left home in October of 2007. It has been a bumpy road, one filled with triumph, sadness, joy, and sometimes depression. We received a suicide awareness briefing a few weeks ago, with the Battalion chaplain coming in and stressing the need to watch over each other during the holiday season and keep each other in good joy. As I sit here and ponder my current situation, I feel no sadness at missing Christmas, I just feel a sort of longing. Longing to hold my wife in my arms, to watch the joy on my four year old nephew's face as he opens gifts from "Calvin." He made a comment the other day, one that touched me very deeply. As he and his mother were driving down the road, he told his mom that he was going to buy an airplane so he could fly "Calvin" back and forth so he can see him. I am glad for his sake that he does not understand the reasoning for me being here. Missing the cutting of the ham, the drinking of the egg nog, and the warmth of a house full of family, love and cheer. I take great pride in the fact that I will be surrounded by my brothers and sisters in arms. I will be surrounded by Brits, Aussies, Canadians, Hungarians, French, Czechs, Spaniards, and others. We are all just ordinary people taken away from our loved ones in ways that we did not ask for, but knew that it was a possibility. We will sit around the table on Christmas, blessed by each others company, but all knowing that we are missing one thing, and that is the warmth and love that only your family can provide. I signed my name to a piece of paper four years ago not knowing where the path would lead me. I do not regret my decision for one moment, and have been blessed by those who not only know and love me, but those who have never met me, have merely seen my name on Facebook and taken me under their wings with words of encouragement and love. I thank you all for those words. I take comfort in the knowledge that in two months I will be home with my family again and am fully ready to come home. I know that this post was rambling and slightly incoherent, but I simply wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Years. I beg you as you sit at the table for dinner on Friday, to look your loved ones in the eyes, tell them you love them, and do not take simple freedoms for granted. God Bless and protect.

SPC Hatfield
Kabul, Afghanistan

Memories of my Father

My father is going into heart surgery tomorrow, on 21 October 2009. We are not sure what the outcome will be, but hopefully everything will be kosher and he will make it through. I figured I would write a piece about him as my way of coping with the situation. I feel vulnerable writing this and posting it on here, but at the same time, I have always found writing to be therapeutic. So, here goes.

I always remember my father as a strong man, a hero in my eyes. A former racing jockey, rodeo clown, and bull rider, he was not a big man by any means. But he was always strong enough to lift us onto the 55 gallon barrel chained to the tree in the back yard. Strong enough to help me steer the old Chevy in the pasture; strong enough to move what seemed like entire trees with me helping. He was always trying to teach me things, showing me the value of a hard day’s work. The man who helped build Air Force One, the man who was in the Navy during the Vietnam era, the man who rode bulls, the man who has two scars on his chest from being speared by a bull. The man I always looked up to. He seemed to be indestructible, an immortal put on this earth to show me, a mere mortal, the truths of life. To show me how to become productive member of society. I will always remember him as that man, not the frail man he has become today. He has continually earned my respect and admiration. He has never given up, even in times and circumstances where others would have done so easily. Two major heart attacks, a leg amputation due to a broken leg, diabetes, heart clogs, and trouble breathing, he has continued to push forward, to be there for his children and grandchildren. I ask myself, if in his position, would I have the courage, the will to carry on as he does? The answer I hope is yes, that he has instilled the courage and the values to carry on in such a manner, to never give up, to always keep fighting, to be an honorable man in an unhonorable world. To continue to better myself, to strive for perfection, to set the standard, not just meet it. I fail in some of these categories, but in others, I excel. My father has only told me he was proud of me one time, just a few days before I left for Iraq. I am not ashamed to admit that a tear or two streamed down my face. As I sit here facing the realization that I may never see him alive again, I once again want to cry. I cried tonight for the second time in two years, the first time being after I lost a soldier. I tell you this, knowing that it is the value of honesty that my father has instilled in me, the value of shamelessness, the value of courage, and of honor. I pray that after he has passed, whether that be tomorrow or ten years from now, that I can continue to carry on his legacy, to be half the man he was, and to maybe instill in my future son the same values, that he be a man of honor as much as mine was. I can only pray for my father’s safety, that he may make it out of the operating room tomorrow, but if he doesn’t, I know that he will have gone to a better place, free of the pain and the suffering that he is going through right now. In closing, I am most saddened by the fact that my father will probably never see this, never know my true feelings of him. Tears currently blur my vision at this thought, and it is becoming difficult to typ. I love you, Dad